老妇人的故事 英文版The Old Wives' Tale
阿诺德.本涅特 Arnold Bennett
V
On the Sunday afternoon Mrs. Baines was trying to repose a littlein the drawing-room, where she had caused a fire to be lighted.Constance was in the adjacent bedroom with her father. Sophia laybetween blankets in the room overhead with a feverish cold. Thiscold and her new dress were Mrs. Baines's sole consolation at themoment. She had prophesied a cold for Sophia, refuser of castor-oil, and it had come. Sophia had received, for standing in hernightdress at a draughty window of a May morning, what Mrs. Bainescalled 'nature's slap in the face.' As for the dress, she hadworshipped God in it, and prayed for Sophia in it, before dinner;and its four double rows of gimp on the skirt had been accounted agreat success. With her lace-bordered mantle and her low, stringedbonnet she had assuredly given a unique lustre to the congregationat chapel. She was stout; but the fashions, prescribing vagueoutlines, broad downward slopes, and vast amplitudes, werefavourable to her shape. It must not be supposed that stout womenof a certain age never seek to seduce the eye and trouble themeditations of man by other than moral charms. Mrs. Baines knewthat she was comely, natty, imposing, and elegant; and theknowledge gave her real pleasure. She would look over her shoulderin the glass as anxious as a girl: make no mistake.
She did not repose; she could not. She sat thinking, in exactlythe same posture as Sophia's two afternoons previously. She wouldhave been surprised to hear that her attitude, bearing, andexpression powerfully recalled those of her reprehensibledaughter. But it was so. A good angel made her restless, and shewent idly to the window and glanced upon the empty, shutteredSquare. She too, majestic matron, had strange, brief yearnings foran existence more romantic than this; shootings across herspirit's firmament of tailed comets; soft, inexplicablemelancholies. The good angel, withdrawing her from such a mood,directed her gaze to a particular spot at the top of the square.
She passed at once out of the room--not precisely in a hurry, yetwithout wasting time. In a recess under the stairs, immediatelyoutside the door, was a box about a foot square and eighteeninches deep covered with black American cloth. She bent down andunlocked this box, which was padded within and contained theBaines silver tea-service. She drew from the box teapot, sugar-bowl, milk-jug, sugar-tongs, hot-water jug, and cake-stand (aflattish dish with an arching semicircular handle)--chasedvessels, silver without and silver-gilt within; glitteringheirlooms that shone in the dark corner like the secret pride ofrespectable families. These she put on a tray that always stood onend in the recess. Then she looked upwards through the banistersto the second floor.
"Maggie!" she piercingly whispered.
"Yes, mum," came a voice.
"Are you dressed?"
"Yes, mum. I'm just coming."
"Well, put on your muslin." "Apron," Mrs. Baines implied.
showing a wound. But when she lay awake at night by theorganism which had once been.
Maggie understood.
"Take these for tea," said Mrs. Baines when Maggie descended."Better rub them over. You know where the cake is--that new one.The best cups. And the silver spoons."
They both heard a knock at the side-door, far off, below.
"There!" exclaimed Mrs. Baines. "Now take these right down intothe kitchen before you open."
"Yes, mum," said Maggie, departing.
Mrs. Baines was wearing a black alpaca apron. She removed it andput on another one of black satin embroidered with yellow flowers,which, by merely inserting her arm into the chamber, she had takenfrom off the chest of drawers in her bedroom. Then she fixedherself in the drawing-room.
Maggie returned, rather short of breath, convoying the visitor.
"Ah! Miss Chetwynd," said Mrs. Baines, rising to welcome. "I'msure I'm delighted to see you. I saw you coming down the Square,and I said to myself, 'Now, I do hope Miss Chetwynd isn't going toforget us.'"
Miss Chetwynd, simpering momentarily, came forward with that self-conscious, slightly histrionic air, which is one of the penaltiesof pedagogy. She lived under the eyes of her pupils. Her life wasone ceaseless effort to avoid doing anything which might influenceher charges for evil or shock the natural sensitiveness of theirparents. She had to wind her earthly way through a forest of themost delicate susceptibilities--fern-fronds that stretched acrossthe path, and that she must not even accidentally disturb with herskirt as she passed. No wonder she walked mincingly! No wonder shehad a habit of keeping her elbows close to her sides, and drawingher mantle tight in the streets! Her prospectus talked about 'asound and religious course of training,' 'study embracing theusual branches of English, with music by a talented master,drawing, dancing, and calisthenics.' Also 'needlework plain andornamental;' also 'moral influence;' and finally about terms,'which are very moderate, and every particular, with references toparents and others, furnished on application.' (Sometimes, too,without application.) As an illustration of the delicacy of fern-fronds, that single word 'dancing' had nearly lost her Constanceand Sophia seven years before!
She was a pinched virgin, aged forty, and not 'well off;' in herfamily the gift of success had been monopolized by her eldersister. For these characteristics Mrs. Baines, as a matron in easycircumstances, pitied Miss Chetwynd. On the other hand, MissChetwynd could choose ground from which to look down upon Mrs.Baines, who after all was in trade. Miss Chetwynd had no trace ofthe local accent; she spoke with a southern refinement which theFive Towns, while making fun of it, envied. All her O's had agenteel leaning towards 'ow,' as ritualism leans towards Romanism.And she was the fount of etiquette, a wonder of correctness; inthe eyes of her pupils' parents not so much 'a perfect LADY' as 'aPERFECT lady.' So that it was an extremely nice question whether,upon the whole, Mrs. Baines secretly condescended to Miss Chetwyndor Miss Chetwynd to Mrs. Baines. Perhaps Mrs. Baines, by virtue ofher wifehood, carried the day.
Miss Chetwynd, carefully and precisely seated, opened theconversation by explaining that even if Mrs. Baines had notwritten she should have called in any case, as she made a practiceof calling at the home of her pupils in vacation time: which wastrue. Mrs. Baines, it should be stated, had on Friday afternoonsent to Miss Chetwynd one of her most luxurious notes--lavender-coloured paper with scalloped edges, the selectest mode of theday--to announce, in her Italian hand, that Constance and Sophiawould both leave school at the end of the next term, and givingreasons in regard to Sophia.
Before the visitor had got very far, Maggie came in with alacquered tea-caddy and the silver teapot and a silver spoon on alacquered tray. Mrs. Baines, while continuing to talk, chose a keyfrom her bunch, unlocked the tea-caddy, and transferred fourteaspoonfuls of tea from it to the teapot and relocked the caddy.
"Strawberry," she mysteriously whispered to Maggie; and Maggiedisappeared, bearing the tray and its contents.
"And how is your sister? It is quite a long time since she wasdown here," Mrs. Baines went on to Miss Chetwynd, after whispering"strawberry."
The remark was merely in the way of small-talk--for the hostessfelt a certain unwilling hesitation to approach the topic ofdaughters--but it happened to suit the social purpose of MissChetwynd to a nicety. Miss Chetwynd was a vessel brimming withgreat tidings.
that she is very much set on it. Yes,she would, at any rate, make a teacher far.
"She is very well, thank you," said Miss Chetwynd, and herexpression grew exceedingly vivacious. Her face glowed with prideas she added, "Of course everything is changed now."
"Indeed?" murmured Mrs. Baines, with polite curiosity.
"Yes," said Miss Chetwynd. "You've not heard?"
"No," said Mrs. Baines. Miss Chetwynd knew that she had not heard.
"About Elizabeth's engagement? To the Reverend Archibald Jones?"
It is the fact that Mrs. Baines was taken aback. She did nothingindiscreet; she did not give vent to her excusable amazement thatthe elder Miss Chetwynd should be engaged to any one at all, assome women would have done in the stress of the moment. She kepther presence of mind.
"This is really MOST interesting!" said she.
It was. For Archibald Jones was one of the idols of the WesleyanMethodist Connexion, a special preacher famous throughout England.At 'Anniversaries' and 'Trust sermons,' Archibald Jones hadprobably no rival. His Christian name helped him; it was aluscious, resounding mouthful for admirers. He was not anitinerant minister, migrating every three years. His function wasto direct the affairs of the 'Book Room,' the publishingdepartment of the Connexion. He lived in London, and shot out intothe provinces at week-ends, preaching on Sundays and giving alecture, tinctured with bookishness, 'in the chapel' on Mondayevenings. In every town he visited there was competition for theprivilege of entertaining him. He had zeal, indefatigable energy,and a breezy wit. He was a widower of fifty, and his wife had beendead for twenty years. It had seemed as if women were not for thisbright star. And here Elizabeth Chetwynd, who had left the FiveTowns a quarter of a century before at the age of twenty, hadcaught him! Austere, moustached, formidable, desiccated, she musthave done it with her powerful intellect! It must be a union ofintellects! He had been impressed by hers, and she by his, andthen their intellects had kissed. Within a week fifty thousandwomen in forty counties had pictured to themselves this osculationof intellects, and shrugged their shoulders, and decided once morethat men were incomprehensible. These great ones in London,falling in love like the rest! But no! Love was a ribald andvoluptuous word to use in such a matter as this. It was generallyfelt that the Reverend Archibald Jones and Miss Chetwynd the elderwould lift marriage to what would now be termed an astral plane.
After tea had been served, Mrs. Baines gradually recovered herposition, both in her own private esteem and in the deference ofMiss Aline Chetwynd.
"Yes," said she. "You can talk about your sister, and you can callHIM Archibald, and you can mince up your words. But have you got atea-service like this? Can you conceive more perfect strawberryjam than this? Did not my dress cost more than you spend on yourclothes in a year? Has a man ever looked at you? After all, isthere not something about my situation ... in short, something...?"
She did not say this aloud. She in no way deviated from thescrupulous politeness of a hostess. There was nothing in even hertone to indicate that Mrs. John Baines was a personage. Yet itsuddenly occurred to Miss Chetwynd that her pride in being theprospective sister-in-law of the Rev. Archibald Jones would bebetter for a while in her pocket. And she inquired after Mr.Baines. After this the conversation limped somewhat.
dressed?"beyond her strength by the sounds of the visitand the colloquy.
"I suppose you weren't surprised by my letter?" said Mrs. Baines.
"I was and I wasn't," answered Miss Chetwynd, in her professionalmanner and not her manner of a prospective sister-in-law. "Ofcourse I am naturally sorry to lose two such good pupils, but wecan't keep our pupils for ever." She smiled; she was not withoutfortitude--it is easier to lose pupils than to replace them."Still"--a pause--"what you say of Sophia is perfectly true,perfectly. She is quite as advanced as Constance. Still"--anotherpause and a more rapid enunciation--"Sophia is by no means anordinary girl."
"I hope she hasn't been a very great trouble to you?"
"Oh NO!" exclaimed Miss Chetwynd. "Sophia and I have got on verywell together. I have always tried to appeal to her reason. I havenever FORCED her ... Now, with some girls ... In some ways I lookon Sophia as the most remarkable girl--not pupil--but the mostremarkable--what shall I say?--individuality, that I have ever metwith." And her demeanour added, "And, mind you, this is something--from me!"
"Indeed!" said Mrs. Baines. She told herself, "I am not yourcommon foolish parent. I see my children impartially. I amincapable of being flattered concerning them."
Nevertheless she was nattered, and the thought shaped itself thatreally Sophia was no ordinary girl.
"I suppose she has talked to you about becoming a teacher?" askedMiss Chetwynd, taking a morsel of the unparalleled jam.
She held the spoon with her thumb and three fingers. Her fourthfinger, in matters of honest labour, would never associate withthe other three; delicately curved, it always drew proudly awayfrom them.
"Has she mentioned that to you?" Mrs. Baines demanded, startled.
"Oh yes!" said Miss Chetwynd. "Several times. Sophia is a verysecretive girl, very--but I think I may say I have always had herconfidence. There have been times when Sophia and I have been verynear each other. Elizabeth was much struck with her. Indeed, I maytell you that in one of her last letters to me she spoke of Sophiaand said she had mentioned her to Mr. Jones, and Mr. Jonesremembered her quite well."
Impossible for even a wise, uncommon parent not to be affected bysuch an announcement!
"I dare say your sister will give up her school now," observedMrs. Baines, to divert attention from her self-consciousness.
"Oh NO!" And this time Mrs. Baines had genuinely shocked MissChetwynd. "Nothing would induce Elizabeth to give up the cause ofeducation. Archibald takes the keenest interest in the school. Ohno! Not for worlds!"
"THEN YOU THINK SOPHIA WOULD MAKE A GOOD TEACHER?" asked Mrs.Baines with apparent inconsequence, and with a smile. But thewords marked an epoch in her mind. All was over.
"I think she is very much set on it and--"
"That wouldn't affect her father--or me," said Mrs. Bainesquickly.
"Certainly not! I merely say that she is very much set on it. Yes,she would, at any rate, make a teacher far superior to theaverage." ("That girl has got the better of her mother withoutme!" she reflected.) "Ah! Here is dear Constance!"
Constance, tempted beyond her strength by the sounds of the visitand the colloquy, had slipped into the room.
"I've left both doors open, mother," she excused herself forquitting her father, and kissed Miss Chetwynd.
She blushed, but she blushed happily, and really made a mostcreditable debut as a young lady. Her mother rewarded her bytaking her into the conversation. And history was soon made.
So Sophia was apprenticed to Miss Aline Chetwynd. Mrs. Baines boreherself greatly. It was Miss Chetwynd who had urged, and herrespect for Miss Chetwynd ... Also somehow the Reverend ArchibaldJones came into the cause.
Of course the idea of Sophia ever going to London was ridiculous,ridiculous! (Mrs. Baines secretly feared that the ridiculous mighthappen; but, with the Reverend Archibald Jones on the spot, theworst could be faced.) Sophia must understand that even theapprenticeship in Bursley was merely a trial. They would see howthings went on. She had to thank Miss Chetwynd.
"I made Miss Chetwynd come and talk to mother," said Sophiamagnificently one night to simple Constance, as if to imply, 'YourMiss Chetwynd is my washpot.'
To Constance, Sophia's mere enterprise was just as staggering asher success. Fancy her deliberately going out that Saturdaymorning, after her mother's definite decision, to enlist MissChetwynd in her aid!
There is no need to insist on the tragic grandeur of Mrs. Baines'srenunciation--a renunciation which implied her acceptance of achange in the balance of power in her realm. Part of its tragedywas that none, not even Constance, could divine the intensity ofMrs. Baines's suffering. She had no confidant; she was incapableof showing a wound. But when she lay awake at night by theorganism which had once been her husband, she dwelt long anddeeply on the martyrdom of her life. What had she done to deserveit? Always had she conscientiously endeavoured to be kind, just,patient. And she knew herself to be sagacious and prudent. In thefrightful and unguessed trials of her existence as a wife, surelyshe might have been granted consolations as a mother! Yet no; ithad not been! And she felt all the bitterness of age againstyouth--youth egotistic, harsh, cruel, uncompromising; youth thatis so crude, so ignorant of life, so slow to understand! She hadConstance. Yes, but it would be twenty years before Constancecould appreciate the sacrifice of judgment and of pride which hermother had made, in a sudden decision, during that rambling,starched, simpering interview with Miss Aline Chetwynd. ProbablyConstance thought that she had yielded to Sophia's passionatetemper! Impossible to explain to Constance that she had yielded tonothing but a perception of Sophia's complete inability to hearreason and wisdom. Ah! Sometimes as she lay in the dark, shewould, in fancy, snatch her heart from her bosom and fling it downbefore Sophia, bleeding, and cry: "See what I carry about with me,on your account!" Then she would take it back and hide it again,and sweeten her bitterness with wise admonitions to herself.
All this because Sophia, aware that if she stayed in the house shewould be compelled to help in the shop, chose an honourableactivity which freed her from the danger. Heart, how absurd of youto bleed!